There was not a sound, and after waiting a few moments to command his voice and to try and stay the tumultuous beating of his heart, Mark went on,--

"My lads, that must be the schooner waiting, as Tom Fillot said."

He paused again, for his words would hardly come. Then, more and more huskily from his emotion:

"My lads, I know you're weak, but you've got the pluck. The crew of that schooner stole upon us in the night, struck you all down, and pitched us into the boat."

There was another pause--a longer one, for it required a desperate effort to get out the words. Then, so faintly as to be hardly heard, but with a strength in them which electrified the listeners, Mark Vandean, midshipman and mere boy, said to the stout men around him,--

"It's dark as pitch now, lads, so couldn't we steal aboard and serve them the same?"

CHAPTER TWENTY ONE.

A DESPERATE ATTEMPT.

For the boat quivered as to a man all sprang up, and forgetting everything in their excitement, the men were about to cheer, but were brought back to a knowledge of their position by that softly-uttered warning sound just as a lanthorn was seen moving at a distance once more, followed by a sharp sound like the closing of a hatch.

The boat rocked a little again as the men sank back in their places, while Mark felt as if he were being suffocated, as he trembled, and felt the perspiration stand in big drops upon his forehead.

For he was startled at his venturesome plan, knowing that such a task would be that of a strong, experienced, determined man, and now that he had made the proposal he felt as if he must have been mad.

To carry out such a venture needed quite fresh, active men. Those to whom he had proposed the attempt were in no wise fit, and to induce them to try and recapture the schooner was like tempting them to their death.

"It is all foolishness," he said to himself in the brief instants during which these thoughts flashed through his brain, but the next moment he awoke to the fact that he had set a spark in contact with a train of human gunpowder, that the spark had caught, and that it was impossible now to stop.

"Heads close together, mates," whispered Tom Fillot. "Not a sound on your lives. Come, Mr Vandean, sir, say the word--when. Now? At once?"

"No, no," whispered back Mark; "you are all weak and ill. I've been thinking about it since I spoke, and it is too much for you to do."

A low, angry murmur arose, and Tom Fillot chuckled.

"Too much for us, sir? Not it. You've only got to give the word, and there's that in us now as'll carry us through anything. Only you lead us, sir, and we'll do all the work. Is that the right word, maties?"

"Yes," came like a hiss from the whole party.

"There, sir. You hear. Don't you be afraid as we won't do our duty by you."

"No, no, Tom Fillot, I'm not a bit afraid of that, but the venture seems too wild."

"Not it, sir. Why, we're all red hot to be let go; so now then, what about the plans?"

"I have none, and we had better give up the business."

"You're saying that to save us, sir, but we don't want to be saved the trouble. We want to get that schooner back, and serve out the rough 'uns who half killed all on us. And what's more, me and my mates liked the taste o' the prize-money we had got to our mouths afore it were s.n.a.t.c.hed away, so we want to get it back again. That's so, ain't it, lads?"

"Ay, ay," was whispered so deeply that it hardly reached Mark's ears; but there was a fierce earnestness in it that told how strong was the determination on the part of the men to try and wipe out the past night's disgrace, while, just as he thought this, by a strange coincidence, Tom Fillot whispered,--

"We must take her, sir. You can't go back and meet the skipper without the schooner."

The most cunningly contrived advice could not have affected Mark more powerfully. His heart beat rapidly, and, carried away now by the contagious enthusiasm of the men, he said,--

"Right; then we will take her."

A low humming buzz went up at this, and Mark went on,--

"We shall wait till everything is quite still on board, and then let the boat drift alongside. Dance will hold on with the hook; we shall board her and take them by surprise as they did us, unless their watch is sharper than ours."

"You trust us, sir. We'll have her," whispered Tom Fillot. "We must."

"Then, now--silence. We must wait for a time, the later the better.

When I give the word, Tom Fillot will let the boat drift, two men will give a few dips with oars, and I shall steer her alongside; then Dance will hook on. You will all follow me--"

"And the schooner's ours once more."

"If it is the schooner," said Mark, dubiously.

"If she ain't, she's a slaver, sir," replied Tom Fillot, "and that's enough for we."

They waited in the silence and darkness, listening intently for every sound, but very little was heard from the vessel. Once there were footsteps, and later on they made out a glow of light upon the water, which they judged rightly to be the reflection from the cabin windows, which of course was farthest from them, the vessel being moored from the stem.

Then they sat listening to the rippling of the swiftly-running water, and the peculiarly weird cries and other sounds which came from the sh.o.r.e, terribly suggestive of prowling beasts seeking their nightly food.

It must have been getting toward two bells when Mark, who had been bending over Mr Russell, to try and make out by touch how he was, started up in horror, for, from the direction of the moored vessel, there came a burst of cries, as if someone was being tortured in a terrible way.

"What's that?" cried Mark, in an excited whisper.

"What I wanted to hear, sir," replied Tom Fillot in the same tone. "It might ha' been as that warn't a slaver, after all; but that there noise settles it."

"Then you think it was the poor wretches crying out?"

"Sure on it, sir; as sure as I am that there's somebody going to shout at 'em to be quiet, or he'll come and chuck some of 'em overboard."

Even as the man spoke, footsteps were heard, and then there was a sharp sound like the banging of the top of the hatch with a capstan bar, followed by a fierce shout delivered in a threatening way.

Then came a low, piteous moaning and sobbing, mingled with the crying of children, and once more the top of the hatch was banged.

"Guess I'm coming down to give it to some of you. Stop that! Do yer hear?"

These words came clearly enough over the water in the silence of the tropic night, and once more all was still again, and there was a low whistling, as if someone were walking back to the cabin-hatch, where he stood for a few minutes, and then went below.

"Tom," said Mark, "that's the slaver skipper."

"Yes, sir, so I s'pose. n.o.body else wouldn't bully like that."

"I mean the skipper of the schooner we took."